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Taking a step back, he gazed at the upper windows. Sunlight reflected off the glass, but nothing from within the house was visible. A child’s squeal sounded from somewhere nearby. Benedict turned. Had it come from behind the vicarage? The narrow path he’d taken to the front door continued around the house. He followed it until he reached a large oak tree that marked the entrance into the back garden. There, he stopped.

Ahead of him, a lawn dotted with tiny daisies stretched all the way to the stone wall that separated the vicarage from the neighboring field. Not far from what was likely the kitchen window lay a rectangular vegetable plot. A thriving rhubarb plant towered over rows of seedlings only just making their appearance in the loamy soil. An empty washing line hung between two apple trees.

Caroline was seated on a small bench beneath the nearest tree. She was wearing a pale-green gown and had a crown of tiny daisies lying atop her curly hair. As he watched, she set a matching ring of flowers on Meg’s head. Meg hopped excitedly, sending her yellow frock fluttering and causing the daisy ring to slip.

Caroline laughed. “You must stop moving if you wish to wear your crown, Queen Margaret,” she said. Meg froze, and Caroline repositioned the floral headpiece. “There! I believe that is just right.”

“Thank you, Mama.” Meg gave a subdued hop and shifted to Caroline’s right, giving Benedict his first clear view of the young lady.

His jaw tightened. Caroline was without her bonnet, and shadows caused by the sun flickering through the apple tree branches rippled across her pockmarked face. He had seen far worse on other smallpox survivors, but he could not deny that her scarring was readily apparent. Neither could he deny the way his spirits lifted to truly see her again. As he had guessed from the glimpse he’d been given of her hair during their earlier meetings, her curls had darkened. But her blue eyes—that were so like Meg’s—were just as he remembered. And her smile was as warm today as it had been when she’d been chasing toy boats down the river with him and Henry.

Meg squealed. It was the same sound he’d heard moments before. “Look, Mama! The butterfly is back!”

“I see it,” Caroline said.

The little girl ran in a circle, and Benedict caught sight of tiny white wings fluttering ahead of her. Then the butterfly deviated, flying directly toward the oak tree. Meg followed, and before Benedict had a chance to retreat, she spotted him.

“Lord Benting!” she cried. With all thought of catching the butterfly seemingly forgotten, she hurried toward him. “Mama! Lord Benting is here.”

Caroline stood, and with dismay, Benedict realized that he was caught in a trap of his own making. He had intruded on Caroline’s privacy, something for which she had every reason to be upset.

“Lord Benning,” she said, and there was no mistaking the wariness in her tone. “What are you doing here?”

It was not the welcome he usually received, but intuition told him that her coolness stemmed from her discomfort at being without her bonnet and gloves.

“Forgive me for trespassing,” he said. “I tried the front door and was about to leave when I heard Meg’s voice.” Deuce take it. What was wrong with him? He sounded like a schoolboy caught in the wrong dormitory. He cleared his throat. “I noticed that you were not in attendance at today’s church service. Nora disappeared before I could inquire about your health, and so I determined to stop at the vicarage to ask after you on my way back to Farwell Hall.”

“That was very good of you.” She had not moved any closer. “As you can see, I am well. Meg consumed too many ginger biscuits yesterday, which led to an upset stomach and a very wakeful night. Nora generally does not come to the vicarage on Sundays, so I stayed at home to be with Meg.”

“I am relieved that it was nothing more serious that kept you away.”

“I’m all better now.” Meg was standing at his side, her head tilted back, seemingly studying his head. “If you ask her, Mama can make you a daisy crown. It will look prettier than your black hat.”

“Margaret Jane Granger, that was not polite. What do you say to Lord Benning?”

At her mother’s use of her full name, Meg’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon, Lord Benting.”

Benedict crouched and faced the little girl. He had a fairly good idea that it was Meg’s invitation rather than her less-than-complimentary comment about his headwear that had caused Caroline’s displeasure. He also thought it likely that Caroline would not have responded so vehemently had she been wearing one of her veiled bonnets.

“It is quite all right, Meg. I’m not sure that my haberdasher is capable of making me anything so fine as your daisy crown, but for fear of upsetting the fellow, I’d best stick to the rather boring black hats he offers me.” The apprehension did not leave the little girl’s eyes, so he took her hand in his. “I do think your crown is quite lovely, though, and although your mother likely will not believe me, I also prefer the daisy crown she is wearing today to her usual bonnets.”

“You are correct, Lord Benning, I do not believe you. But you are very gallant to say so.”

While he’d been focused on Meg, Caroline had crossed the lawn and now stood within a yard of him. Benedict released Meg’s hand and rose to his full height. He met Caroline’s eyes, knowing that to look away after she’d lowered her defenses sufficiently to approach him would be the most hurtful thing he could do. “To be considered gallant is a laudable goal for any gentleman,” he said. “For my part, however, I believe being honest and trustworthy is of even greater worth.”

She tilted her head to one side, as though attempting to take his measure. “Are you fully honest and trustworthy, my lord? That is no small claim.”

“Agreed. And as I am human, I daresay I err more often than I should, but I do my best to stay true to those values.”

“And yet you maintain that you prefer to see me without my bonnet, as disfigured as I am?”

“I do. In truth, it is a pleasure to see the young girl I once knew again.”

She looked away, and Benedict was struck with the discomforting realization that he may have made her cry.

“Forgive me, Caroli—Mrs. Granger, I did not mean to distress you.”

“Caroline,” she said, dabbing her mottled cheeks with a handkerchief. “Please call me Caroline.” She turned back to him and offered him a watery smile. “After all, it is what you called me when I was the young girl you once knew.”